Just Another Suicide
by bassline overdose
Summary: Old man Winston really did love his boy, and he didn't need the tears to prove it either. Song-fic, loosely based on the song "Mr. Wilmington" by Lucky Boys Confusion, ONE-SHOT


**A/N: **This story is supposed to help me feel motivated to write my other stories, so give it a try and leave a nice review for me, okay?

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _The Outsiders _or the song "Mr. Wilmington" by Lucky Boys Confusion.

**Just Another Suicide**

***

They'd never know how he really felt about Dallas. Those other boys, they thought Dally's daddy was the devil in disguise... Well, after Johnny's dad, that is.

Those boys thought that Doug had no heart, no soul. Those boys thought that Dallas was the mirror image of his father: cold-blooded and uncaring. Those boys didn't know how Doug slept through the night, which he rarely did. Those boys didn't know how Doug could backhand his son even when he was sober. Those boys didn't know that Doug Winston really did love his only son.

No one was expecting the call. Sure, Dallas had been in the hospital, but he was supposed to recover. He was supposed to get out of it alive, right?

Wrong.

_"Ma'am, your son has just died." _Mary dropped the phone onto the ugly, stained linoleum kitchen floor. The phone dangled from its cord, and a man's deep voice buzzed through. _"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you all right?" _

Doug bent over to retrieve the phone, and held it to his ear. "Hello?"

_"Sir? Are you Mr. Doug Winston?" _

Doug nodded. "Yes, that's me. Who's this?"

_"__Mr. Winston, I am Frank Moore from the Tulsa Police Department. I am sorry to inform you of this, but your son, Dallas, has been killed." _

Time stopped for a moment. The world seemed to linger in the emptiness between two seconds. Dallas was dead. Dallas was gone. Dallas would never come back from that wild party at Buck's; his leather jacket missing, his shirt ripped, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, his body smelling of smoke and liquor and cheap perfume, bright cherry lipstick stained on his chapped lips.

Doug would never be able to scold him again. Doug wouldn't be the one to tell him not to do something. Doug could never again smack his son just because it made him feel like he was the dominant one, the man of the house, not Dallas. Doug couldn't slap his son across the face because the impact made him feel that Dallas would actually listen to him, because it made him feel more of a man than he'd ever be.

But Doug could, by all means, discover the bastard who ended his boy's life. "Who the hell did it?" he spat, the bitterness pouring out of his voice, fists clenched tightly. "Who in their right mind could kill that boy? He was seventeen, did you know that? He was seventeen, Goddamn it!"

"_Sir, he was shot by several police officers. He held up a gun, which turned out to be unloaded, to the police. It is essentially considered a suicide."_

A suicide. Dallas? For what?

Doug slammed the phone back onto the receiver and stepped over the sleeping dog to sit next to his wife at the kitchen table. "Mary," he whispered. "Mary, are you all right?"

He followed Maryann's blank stare to the wall above the counter. The walls in the kitchen were painted a light green, because fifteen years ago, when Mary was nine months pregnant, she had wanted a home full of life, where she'd raise her new baby and Dallas. Dallas was sitting on Doug's shoulders, holding a small paintbrush with no paint on the tip, watching as his father painted the walls.

Macy Lynn Winston was born three days later on September 23rd, 1951 at 11:36 a.m.

Macy Lynn Winston died on September 23rd, 1951 at 11:38 a.m.

"Both my babies are gone now," Mary whispered, the sudden realization washing over her likes waves of water.

It'd been ages since Doug heard Mary call Dallas her baby. Dallas didn't believe that a mother could still love her son after his first arrest at ten years old. And after a while, Mary stopped believing it too.

***

"C'mon doggy, let's go for a walk," Doug whispered to Queen, the Rough Collie that had kept the family company for eleven years. Dallas had picked the runt of the litter at the pet store, and despite her size, he decided to call the puppy Queen.

Queen leaped up from her spot on the kitchen floor and kept on Doug's heels. Queenie didn't need a leash; she was well trained. Dallas had helped teach Queen how to sit.

"_C'mon Queen, sit. Good girl!"_

A week had passed since the deaths of Dallas and Johnny and the neighborhood seemed to be in a state of silent peace. While everyone was thinking about the death of two hoods, they kept it to themselves. The fights between the Socs and the greasers had subsided for now, and everybody seemed to move on.

Doug pulled open the handle on the door, ringing the bell, and picked up the daily newspaper. "How you doing Jack?" he greeted the owner of the general store.

"I'm alright, Doug. Hey, I'm sorry 'bout your son. Dallas was uh, he was a, um, good kid." Jack petted the top of Queen's head and fed her a piece of his beef jerky.

Doug sighed. "Dal was a stupid kid."

Jack patted his friend's shoulder. "You know what, Doug? You don't deserve this."

***

He broke down on the back porch, palms pressed over his light blue eyes, blonde hair falling over his hands. Doug did so deserve this. He was never a good father to Dallas. If anyone deserved anything, it was Dallas. Dallas deserved an apology, something that would make up for the times Doug had hit him so hard he left a hand print on Dally's cheek. Something that would make up for the time they could've spent together. Something to make up for one of the small reasons Dallas committed suicide.

It came out choked between sobs, blanketed beneath saliva and tears, and barely comprehendible as Doug spoke it, but Doug Winston had never said a sentence with that much feeling behind it.

"I love you son."

_Hey Mr. Wilmington, yeah I heard about your son. Don't blame yourself, you raised him right, remember that when you can't sleep at night._


End file.
